


Dissociation

by cdenzelj



Category: CSI: Crime Scene Investigation
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-13
Updated: 2020-12-13
Packaged: 2021-03-11 00:34:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,614
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28056213
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cdenzelj/pseuds/cdenzelj
Summary: Nick has a PTSD flashback
Comments: 2
Kudos: 5





	Dissociation

“It’s kind of funny that you get two weeks off a year, and you decide to take a little hop to Nevada and go straight to the lab,” Nick Stokes said through a chuckle. “Do you ever take a day off?”  
“Call me a masochist, but I just wanted to see if you guys have a better microscope than I do. Y’all already have a bigger budget than we do,” Natalie replied with a shrug. “You tellin’ me you don’t watch Forensic Files on the weekends?”  
“I can’t say you’re wrong,” he agreed. They stepped outside into the night. The plethora of colorful lights cast away the moon and stars and threw shadows along the ground.  
“Didn’t mean to keep you so long,” she said while Nick pulled on his brown leather jacket. “Can’t believe it’s night already.”  
“Vegas tends to get a head-start on the night. And no worries, I’m a night shifter myself. I feel like I’m just getting started.” He walked with her down the police station steps, becoming a little confused the farther she went. “Did you park far away?”  
“Took a cab here,” she said casually. “Figured I’d walk to the strip.”  
“That’s… quite a few blocks. Mind some company?”  
“You sure?” Her sideways smile lit up her eyes.  
“I’ve got nothin’ goin’ on. And I like talkin’ to you. Where did you say you were from? You don’t sound Californian.”  
“They don’t really have a distinctive sound,” Natalie pointed out. “But you’re right, I’m actually from Manitoba originally.”  
“Oh Canada! I was wondering why you don’t have a jacket. The cold really doesn’t bother you?”  
She laughed whole-heartedly, making Nick smile widely. “It’s like… sixty-five.”  
“Yeah, and it’s gonna get down to like… fifty.”  
“Oh, so like… a comfy spring day.”  
“What brings you to the southwest? The heat has to be like murder to you. Well, the cities are where the work is, and I had family out this way. The Pacific cuts down on the heat. I could never live in Vegas, though. Goddamn.”  
“You get used to it.”  
“Well sure, easy to say for a Texan,” she said, checking his ribs with her elbow.  
“That’s pretty good, how’d you guess?”  
“How did I guess your accent? You sound Texan. Texas accents are kinda hot.”  
“What kinds of things are you into? Besides microscopes. And what? Male strippers?” She locked an amused gaze on him and he shivered slightly. “F-female strippers?”  
“God, you’re so awkward. No, I’m not interested in strip clubs, and I’m into dudes. I’ pretty easy to please; I like blackjack, foam parties, whiskey, and fight nights.”  
“Fight night?” Nick exclaimed.  
“Yeah,” she replied as the two crossed the street. Neither paid any attention to anyone else, even as the mingling crowds grew thicker and louder closer to the casinos. Pretty soon, even the shadows were washed away, bathed by trillions of bright flashing lights. “Why is that weird?”  
“Well, I dunno. It’s just that, you’re like… one-twenty, five foot four… You don’t strike me as the kind of woman that likes watching a couple blood-thirsty dudes beat the shit out of each other.”  
She shrugged. “Well clearly, you’ve never lived in a military town.”  
Suddenly, the noise of the crowd shifted to mumbles and cries of shock. They stopped and turned just in time for a large, darkly-dressed teenager to tackle Nick into a parked car at a full-on sprint. The tremendous impact instantly forced the air out of his lungs, spasmed his diaphragm, and bounced his head of the passenger window.  
Nick crumpled to the ground, arms wrapped around his stomach as lights exploded behind his eyes. He tried to gasp, but his muscles continued to twitch, his lungs unable to inflate. His own voice screamed in his brain, ordering him to breathe, but he simply couldn’t.  
You’ve gotta breathe, dude! His heart felt as though barbed wire was tangled around it, tightening with every second. Pressure built up in his veins, making his muscles scream in pain.  
CO2 building up… tissue death in no time… Gonna have a heart-attack if you don’t breathe…  
BREATHE!  
I CAN’T!!  
“Oh my God!” he heard Natalie cry. She rushed to his side, putting her hands on him and forcibly moving him to a lying position. “Okay, okay, you just got the wind knocked out of you, you’ll be okay,” she said softly, struggling to get him out of his jacket. “God, you’re heavy…”  
You’re gonna die here… Nick shook his head, but the splitting migraine he got from the car window screamed at him to stop.  
No, not now…  
Breathe fast, breathe slow… Put your gun in your mouth and pull the trigger…  
“It’s okay, Honey,” Natalie was saying, balling up his jacket under the curve of his spine. “I know you’re probably panicking, but you will breathe again. Trust me, Honey,” she repeated, lifting his head and tucking her legs under him.  
Nick heard her voice, though the sound was slipping farther and farther away, drowned out by the pounding of his own heart in his ears.  
You’re gonna die here…  
Every beat began to sound like fists on plexiglass. He put his arms up, and he felt the hard surface of the coffin.  
Any way you like… Put your gun in your mouth…  
Natalie raked her hand back through Nick’s hair as his chest finally heaved with a deep, cleansing breath. “There you go, Honey,” she said sweetly. A pair of officers ran back to her and Nick, having caught and detained the young man they were chasing.  
“Sorry… burglar…” one of them panted. “Is he gonna be okay?” he asked, gesturing to Nick.  
“I dunno,” said Natalie. His hands were tightly fisted, his arms bent at the elbow. His eyes were half-lidded and glazed, and his teeth were tightly bared. “He can breathe, but he’s not responding.”  
Nick began to writhe and struggle, making small groans while his arms pounded against something invisible above him. Natalie let him move, deciding whatever he was doing was best left unhindered.  
“CSI Stokes?” the other officer said, shining his flashlight on Nick’s face.  
His eyes flew open as he felt his pupils slam closed. He was suddenly unable to control his regression and he was back in his glass coffin, six feet underground, with the echoing voice of his captor taunting him while he used up the little air there was. You’re gonna die…  
Nick’s mouth opened wide in an awful, terror-filled scream. Natalie shuddered as his voice shook her to her bones. The officers balked and passersby gave them a wide berth while murmuring to themselves. He drew another breath and kept screaming until tears streamed down his face. He kicked and thrashed, his hands clawing at the air over him.  
“What’s wrong with him?”  
“Call an ambulance!”  
“Is he having a seizure?”  
“His hands stop above him, kinda like he’s one of those mimes…”  
A realization suddenly hit Natalie. He thinks he’s in a box! “Is he the guy that got buried alive a couple years ago?” Natalie asked an officer loudly. “We heard about it in San Diego.”  
“Yeah, that was him,” he responded.  
“Does he have PTSD?”  
He shrugged. “I have no idea. Stokes is notoriously private. It wouldn’t shock me, though.”  
“He’s dissociating,” she said, reaching for her purse. “We have to engage his other senses. What else was he dealing with?”  
“Oh God, this was… four years ago?”  
Nick’s chest heaved with ragged breaths as he started to lower his trembling hands.  
Put your gun your mouth… He felt the familiar pressure building in his veins and his head as he used up the last of the oxygen. No! No, no, no! He quickly grabbed his pistol and pulled back the slide, chambering a round.  
You’ll never breathe again…  
“His gun!” the other officer yelled just as Nick tried to raise his arm.  
“He’s gonna kill himself!”  
Natalie grabbed his wrist and tangled her fingers in his while the cops retrieved his pistol.  
“We gotta engage his other senses,” she repeated.  
“How?”  
“Well light clearly didn’t work.”  
“Should we slap him?”  
“We don’t know if he got a concussion.”  
“Let’s see… there were fire ants in the box, the box was pretty cracked and almost collapsed on him, and the whole thing was set on explosives. The dude gave him glow sticks, his gun, and a tape recorder. Nick used it to say goodbye to his mom and dad…”  
Natalie shifted under him and started undoing the first couple buttons of his shirt. “Was he drugged or was he hit when he was taken?”  
“Drugged.”  
“With what?”  
“Ether, I think.”  
“Ether smells like alcohol, so probably keep those fuckers away, huh?” she said, pointing to a group of drunken revelers who had stopped nearby to gawk. One of the officers followed her directions. “If we hurt him, it’ll make it worse,” she said. “And he isn’t responding to me talking.” She used her free hand to gently rub his chest while speaking soothingly to him.  
Nick shook his head, seeing flashing blue and red lights over him, hearing the garbled sound of his friends calling out for him. He let go of his gun. He felt his heart pounding so hard, he was sure it would beat out of his chest. He felt a strange flood of warmth over the spot, making his skin pebble. They found you, you’re gonna be okay…  
His iron grip cut off the blood flow in her fingers, but she ignored it.  
“That leaves touch, taste, and smell.”  
“Anything in his pockets?”  
Natalie thrust her hand in his front pockets, mumbling apologies for the invasion. “Bubble gum.” Natalie opened a piece and held it under his nose. Nick stilled his body and flexed his free hand in front of his face.  
He heard Grissom’s voice calling him. Pancho! Put your hand on my hand! Nick splayed his hand over him and Natalie took the cue and put her palm against his.  
Pressure switches… Need you to stay lying down, or you’ll blow us all up. We’re gonna open the lid… Stay lying down… Nod your head if you understand me… Do you promise?  
Nick nodded in Natalie’s lap. Sure the gum wasn’t working, she reached for a perfume rollerball in her purse. “This is all I’ve got. Smells kind of strong, but…”  
Pancho say ‘I promise’…  
“I promise,” he cried aloud. Natalie rolled the perfume across Nick’s upper lip just as he took a deep, gasping breath.  
Grissom and Warrick cracked and opened the lid of the coffin. His first life-saving breath filled his lungs with the scent of lilacs and apples. Odd…  
Nick suddenly relaxed and slowly became aware of his present settings. Two officers were standing over him, Natalie was under his head, and two white-clad paramedics were rushing towards him. He jumped up, a little too quickly as pain from the back of his skull hit him everywhere. He shook the haze from his head as Natalie gathered to her feet as well.  
“The fuck?!” he barked. The paramedics put their hands on him, but he wrested himself away. “Get off me, I’m fine! Gimme my gun back,” he growled at the officer.  
“Sir, you need to get checked out, you got clotheslined pretty hard—“  
“I just said I’m fine!” He angrily tapped his chest. “The fuck is my shirt…” he mumbled as he started to button it closed.  
“You had a PTSD dissociation,” Natalie explained. “Skin-to-skin contact helps a lot of people.”  
“I didn’t ask for help,” he growled, keeping eye contact with the cop that still had his gun. The guy handed it over, making sure to switch on all the safeties.  
“You didn’t need to,” she said calmly. “You needed it anyways.”  
He rubbed the back of his head. “We need to check you for a concussion, Sir.”  
“Stop calling me that!”  
“Nick,” said Natalie, putting her hands on his arm in an empathetic gesture. “You got hurt, just let them check you out.”  
He took a deep breath, glaring at the lingering crowd until they were intimidated enough to leave. He was overcome with a sense of embarrassment and humiliation. “I don’t have a concussion,” he said quietly. “I’ve had one before, so I know. But my ribs hurt and I have a massive headache. Give me four aspirin and I’ll be on my way.”  
The medics reluctantly agreed and the officers only left when he had completely calmed down. But Natalie never did. He started to walk in the opposite direction, back toward the police department and his car. “You wanna talk about it?”  
“No I just want to be alone. Thanks for helping me, though.”  
“It’s okay to say you’re hurt, Nick. That it still bothers you.”  
“I don’t want to talk,” he said flatly. He tried to put some distance between her and him, but she was persistent as she was small.  
“Do you have dreams about it? Does it happen often?”  
“It’s not right, losing whole minutes like that. Did I scream?”  
“Yeah. For a while.” He growled, ducking between two nightclubs and into the shadows, hoping the woman wouldn’t follow him. Get the hint!  
“You need to talk about it, Nick,” her voice bounced off the cold brick walls in the alleyway. “It’s not healthy to keep it in.”  
“I let out plenty.”  
“What if I told you I know how it feels? I get it. You can tell me.”  
“I don’t even know you!”  
“Do you tell people you do know? Does it help?”  
“No! It doesn’t help telling friends and family and therapists, why the hell would it help to talk to a complete stranger?”  
She ran to catch up to him and stood right in his way. He stopped, fixated by the earnest look in her eyes. “I have it, too. I dissociate sometimes.” “So... what, now we’re the same?” he said, side-stepping her. “I’m not gonna stop pestering you, Nick. Not until you talk about it.” “I don’t need someone else feeling sorry for me.” “I don’t feel sorry for you. That’s pity. I have compassion for you,” she shot back. “They’re synonyms,” he barked over his shoulder. “No they’re not,” she rebuked, picking up her pace to stay within earshot of him. “Pity is when you look at someone, feel guilty, and walk away. Sympathy is when you feel bad about someone else’s pain, but you still leave them to it. Empathy is when you feel someone else’s pain and relate to them on that level.” He slowed a little, taking a deep, albeit sore, breath. “And compassion?” “Compassion is when you feel someone so deeply that it hurts you too, and you actively try to fix it so you both can feel better.” He stopped, allowing her to catch up. “C’mon. Talk about it.” He sighed heavily.  
“I want a drink.”  
“You sure that’s a good idea?”  
“Lemme put it this way: I’m going to get drunk, and you can either tag along, or not. Just know, I get chatty when I’m drunk. Like you are sober.” “How do you know I’m not like this when I’m drunk?” “I’d honestly love to find out,” he said, trying to mask the heat in his tone. With the embarrassment gone and with all the adrenaline and hormones singing in his veins, he was in no mood to go back to his usual self that night. “I’m fine,” he said, his easy tone reassuring her. “I just feel like I earned one.”  
“Okay. You gonna talk?”  
“A little,” he mumbled. “I think you get the gist of it.”


End file.
